


Contractual Renegotiation

by rillrill



Series: Best of Enemies [4]
Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Again... Kind Of, Anal Fingering, Cock Warming, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Power Play, Top Drop, Topping from the Bottom, kind of, poor communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7062817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a give and take. It's complicated.</p><p>Or, Gavin suggests something that Richard doesn't really <i>get</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contractual Renegotiation

**Author's Note:**

> This might not all make sense. It's not meant to. It's... complicated.

Richard doesn't remember ever experiencing a summer this hot and humid since moving to Palo Alto. Heat, sure, but but not the humidity, not the oppressive waves of air that make sweat roll down his spine, rendering everything underneath his clothing swamplike. It's fucking hot, okay? And he hates it. He's stripped down to only one layer total, khaki shorts and a t-shirt, and he's still fucking miserable.

"It's a La Niña year," Gavin says, like that means anything. He lets Richard into his house, unusually quiet, and at least it's fucking cool in here, central AC chilly. Gavin’s in just boxer briefs and a t-shirt, unusually underdressed, but he figures the heat is doing this to everyone. Richard gulps in lungfuls of cold air and wipes the sweat from his brow that has somehow managed to accumulate between the driveway and the door.

"Whatever," Richard says.

The hottest summer the Santa Clara Valley has experienced in years, and Richard's stuck in it, daydreaming about skipping town but caught in a coding arms race against someone he can't stop fucking. It would almost be funny if it weren't such a joke. Every time a Groupon advertising a weekend trip to the ocean, to the forest, to anywhere else pops into his inbox, he gives it a few wistful moments of thought. Imagines himself on a beach, Corona in hand, a few fucking minutes of peace and quiet. Anywhere but where he is.

So he meets Gavin at his house at the usual time, Friday after work, but Richard can tell as soon as he walks through the door that things aren't so good. He doesn't ask why, though, because he doesn't want to know. But from the way Gavin's pacing around the kitchen, like a tiger on display, his body tense and his spine a little hunched over — Richard's no expert on body language, but he can tell that something’s not right. Instead, he excuses himself to shower, citing the stickiness the humidity has imparted all over his body, and Gavin waves him off with disinterest.  
  
Which is fine. At least he knows how to work the shower in the master bathroom by now. Through much trial and error, but still.  
  
He uses Gavin’s soap and shampoo, emerges smelling like his scent: that odd blend of sandalwood and black tea that used to turn his stomach a little before he realized how much he craved having it all over him, driving home with it clinging to his skin. He still doesn’t love it, but he _wants_ it. There’s got to be a difference.

"Work today was a clusterfuck," Richard volunteers as he rejoins Gavin in the living room, now wrapped in one of the two nice robes hanging in the bathroom. He’s not certain whether it’s a generic guest robe or something more specifically meant for him. He doesn’t want to know. In any case, he knows how much Gavin normally likes hearing about his own company's failures and offering what he thinks of as sage advice. It's a peace offering.

But Gavin just shrugs. "Mm." It's barely an answer. Richard's been here for ten minutes and Gavin hasn't even touched him. He doesn't want to get pushy, but that feels weird, and also, whatever, who cares if he's pushy? It's _Gavin fucking Belson_ . He's hardly some blushing fucking flower.   
  
But the icy wall between them doesn’t melt with a few minutes of intimate almost-conversation. Instead, after Richard’s fourth or fifth valiant attempt at shoring up his end of it, Gavin sighs and turns to him, with a heaviness to his countenance.  
  
“Things,” he says in a tight voice, “are not great right now.”  
  
“Okay,” Richard says uncertainly, sliding down further on the couch. He’s not sure what the hell to say to that. “Like, between us? Or at Hooli? Or —”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. At Hooli, yes.” Gavin shakes his head. “It’s not worth getting into.”  
  
“Okay,” says Richard again, and he adjusts the sash on his bathrobe. “I, uh. Do you want me to go?”  
  
“No.” Looking unsatisfied, Gavin turns away, but then looks back to Richard with a renewed interest. “Actually,” he says. “Richard. Perhaps we can try something that I believe might have a — grounding effect for us both.”

“I'm not meditating,” Richard says, automatically and too quickly, but Gavin just shakes his head.

“I believe I suggested this some time ago, and if memory serves, you didn't quite understand the purpose,” Gavin says slowly. “So let me — here.”

He slides down to the floor, situating himself on the carpet between Richard's knees. Richard frowns, but lets his legs fall open a little wider, allowing the robe to fall open with them. Gavin shifts closer, eying his dick, but doesn't touch it. Instead, he looks back up at Richard, who is still confused and uncertain of what this —

"Do you still have work left to do?" Gavin asks softly, and Richard thinks, nods an affirmative, his hand ghosting over his laptop case where he’d left it on the couch cushion. "Good," says Gavin. "How much? How long will it take?"

Richard furrows his brow. "Maybe 45 minutes," he says, and Gavin smiles.

"That's perfect," he says quietly, seriously. "Although — would you be more comfortable at a desk? I don't want to be in the way." He leans in, presses his cheek against Richard's inner thigh, and suddenly Richard is struck with — _oh_.

 _That's_ what this means. 

"Your desk, yeah," he says, and Gavin smirks again and pats him affectionately on the thigh before drawing himself up to a standing position. Richard follows him, still a bit dumbstruck, through the house to the master suite, toting his laptop carefully with him and setting it down on the desk in the anteroom that Gavin indicates before waiting.

Gavin clears his throat hesitantly, and presses a rough kiss to Richard's closed mouth before he carefully slides to his knees and maneuvers himself underneath the desk. Richard pauses for a moment, uncertain still, because this isn't — it's not them. It's normally Gavin taking charge, pushy and bossy like it's just his normal state, or else Richard himself flipping the script and sending him down to his knees. But Gavin doesn't make choices like this so readily; his desire to submit doesn't really bubble at the top of his brain.

Richard looks at him, on his knees beneath his cocobolo desk, looking back at Richard with heavy expectation, and he takes a breath. Puts his laptop on the desk and sits, the bathrobe again falling open. Pushes the chair in, as much as he can, boxing Gavin in. Waits.

"I don't want you to come until you're finished," Gavin says from beneath the desk. Richard feels his hot breath skitter across the skin of his thighs and holds back a shiver. "I'll be very disappointed if you do. In fact, you needn't even be hard the entire time."

"Uh, okay," Richard says haltingly. He pauses, parsing this, then adds, "Is it okay if I, you know, move?"

"Keep it to a minimum," comes Gavin's response along with his hands on his inner thighs, and Richard shifts back enough in the chair to get a better look. His dick is certainly showing interest — for better or worse — as Gavin runs his wide hands up and down his thighs, his eyes trained on Richard's —

He feels, oddly, as though he's the one on display, Gavin still fully clothed and seemingly in control as he rubs his cheek against Richard's thigh again. Richard opens his mouth to point this out, make some comment about it, but before he can form the words, Gavin opens his mouth and takes just the head of his cock inside, sucking on it gently.

Richard closes his eyes immediately. "Shit," he says on instinct, and Gavin squeezes his thighs, perhaps in admonishment or just affirmation. Gavin takes more of him in, and Richard feels himself stiffen in his mouth. Gavin's eyes flick up to his, with a sort of hard purpose, and Richard exhales and opens his laptop. He has work to do.

It's not much, in the grand scheme of things. There's a bug in a piece of code he's been struggling with, and he thinks he's figured out where the mistake is; it's just a matter of writing a quick patch. But then there's the issue of Gavin's mouth, which is stretched hot around him, alternating between teasing the head and sliding all the way down to the base. He keeps stiffening and then softening again, back and forth, trying — on Gavin's implicit instruction — not to stay hard. Because if he gives in and lets that happen, it'll be over much too soon, and Gavin won't be proud of him then —

Richard clenches his jaw as his hips thrust up, beyond his control. His cock hits the back of Gavin's throat, and he's immediately admonished with a sharp smack to his thigh. "Sorry," he mutters, and then reaches for his headphones. "I'm gonna try to work now."

A few minutes into it, though, and he's realizing how grounding this actually is. Gavin wasn't wrong. Past the first deluge of sensation, he's able to relax enough to get into the rhythm of the work in front of him. Every so often, he takes a quick breather, takes a hand away to reach down and thread it through Gavin's hair, prompting a soft hum.

There's something that's not quite comfortable about the position. For Richard himself, more so he thinks than for Gavin. Being in control isn't something that he's entirely comfortable with, at least not yet. But it’s the way Gavin seems to be guiding him through it, taking the lead even as he nominally gives it up. That's doing something for him. Easing him into it. Teaching him.

He has a vision, of a plan on Gavin's end. The suspicions snap into sharp focus as soon as he's thought of him. Gavin is molding him. Building him into some version of an ideal man, an upgraded version of himself. The strangest part is that it doesn't make him angry. It erupts, hot and shameful in his belly, but doesn't strike a chord of wrath at all. He can be what Gavin wants him to be, and, here, what Gavin needs him to be. It's better than the alternative. Better than living as a disappointment.

Finally, as he comes to the end of the patch, he chances a glance downward, and is almost undone by what he sees. Gavin's eyes are bleary and tearing up; his mouth red and swollen, saliva escaping from the corners. He's got both hands clasped around Richard's thighs, as if to ground himself. But he doesn't look uncomfortable. In fact, it's the opposite. He looks more comfortable and at ease than Richard's seen him in days, breathing steadily through his nose, and as he directs his gaze up to Richard's, a hot spike of newfound arousal fizzles up Richard's spine.

"I'm done," Richard manages to say, his voice a rough croak. With a final hum of assent, Gavin carefully pulls away, letting Richard's heavy cock fall from his mouth, a string of spit breaking between the head and his lips.

Richard swallows, hard, and pushes the chair back to stand. He wonders if he should help Gavin up from under the desk, but Gavin manages to haul himself up with minimal visible effort, looking lithe and only a little bit achy. It's as though all the tension in his body has been transferred straight into Richard, who trembles as he shrugs the bathrobe off his shoulders and finally tosses it away.

"You used my soap," Gavin says finally, and off Richard's look of confusion, adds: "It was all I could focus on. You. Your smell."

"Oh my _God_ ," Richard says blankly, taking the base of his own cock in hand. He runs his thumb up the vein, already shaking from the overstimulation. "Are we — will you _please_ just fucking make me come, already?"

Gavin furrows his brow, wiping spittle from the corners of his swollen pink lips as he rakes his gaze over Richard. "How do you want me to do that, Richard?"

Richard hears an incoherent whine come out of his own mouth, unbidden and totally fucking uncalled for. "I don't know. Fingers. Tongue. I don’t care. I—I want your fingers."

Gavin seems to consider this for a moment before nodding tautly. “Bedroom,” he says, pointing. An unnecessary gesture. Richard follows the direction, though, into the inner bedroom, ducking his head, feeling unusually exposed yet again. Gavin follows him in, sits down heavily on the bed and pulls Richard down with him, arranging him on all fours. The room feels blurry, bleary as he lets it happen. Gavin is so calm. So much calmer than he was an hour ago.  
  
Richard grits his teeth, takes a little hiss of a gasp as Gavin licks a wide, flat stripe from his perineum clear up to his tailbone, and then another, though it’s cut short. He hears Gavin sigh with frustration, then add, “My jaw. It’s a bit sore—”  
  
“Please just get me off before my fucking head explodes,” Richard whines, tossing his head against the thousand-thread-count sheets, and he hears the pump of the lube bottle on the bedside table depress twice before Gavin’s fingers are dancing around his entrance, rubbing and pressing down insistently.  
  
Richard moans a little, letting himself go. He lets Gavin readjust his position, so that he’s almost straddling his lap, ass still up in the air. And then those fingers are back at his hole, and Richard finds himself to it immediately, after so much build-up, the tension of the last hour almost too much. One of Gavin’s thick fingers — thick and soft, his hands are so ungodly soft — presses easily into him, and then another, in quick succession.  
  
“You like that,” Gavin observes, his voice flat but not unaffectionate. “Tell me how you like it.”  
  
“I, uh.” Richard licks his lips. “Yeah. I like it.”  
  
“How much?”  
  
“So much,” Richard mutters, eyes squeezed firmly shut. This isn’t his forte, dirty talk has never been his speed. And for Gavin, it’s clearly all a rhetorical exercise, given the way Richard knows he’s writhing on the bed, hips bucking against thin air, the tip of his cock flushed and aching. “I like your hands.”  
  
“I know you do,” Gavin murmurs. “Do you want more?”  
  
“Mm.” Clearly, Richard thinks, but doesn’t say.  
  
“Tell me. More, or faster?”  
  
“More,” Richard forces out, pressing his face against the duvet. “And _harder_ .”  
  
Gavin chuckles. “Full sentences, Richard,” he says calmly. “And don’t you fucking rut against my leg like that, Jesus Christ, you’re like a cat in heat —”  
  
“I’m sorry.” The words come out automatically, almost without Richard’s permission. He doubts Gavin was fishing for an apology, but he’s too gone, dizzy and  
  
“Full sentences. What do you want?”  
  
Richard grits his teeth as he searches for the words. “I want you to - put another finger in me,” he forces out. “And harder, fuck me with them harder, I want you to go faster, please.”  
  
There’s a long pause, and he shuts his eyes tightly with shame, unsure of why following this particular command is hitting him so hardly. And then Gavin lands one hard smack on his ass as he simultaneously works in a third finger. And the third is always what gets Richard, he just has to wait for it, wait for Gavin to work his magic — and he does, grinding down against Gavin’s leg, rutting against the bulge there with abandon as Gavin fucks him hard with all three fingers. It’s almost too much, the sensation is intense and just enough, and there’s a split second of near-panic before he lets go and barrels over the edge, letting out a loud string of incoherent swearing as he comes, hard and messy and borne of unbearable bliss, all over Gavin’s leg with three of his perfect fingers stretching him wide and working him perfectly.  
  
The world swims before his eyes for a moment, before he collects himself enough to speak.  
  
“Oh my God,” he mutters. Gavin looks strangled; for the first time, Richard takes note of the significant erection tenting his boxers and reaches down to press the heel of his hand into it. Gavin lets out a little gasp, and Richard nods, a buzzing post-orgasmic clarity returning to his senses. Clearing his head just in time for Gavin to lose his. A natural ebb and flow, he supposes. Symbiotic, not parasitic.  
  
“That was good, wasn’t it,” Gavin says. A statement, not a question, and Richard nods as he licks his palm, then works his hand between them, into Gavin’s boxers to stroke him a few times.  
  
“It really was,” Richard agrees, the words coming together just as they leave his mouth. He puts a mean little sneer into his voice, a curl to the words that he senses Gavin will want. “You were really useful. You like being used?”  
  
“To a degree,” Gavin says haltingly as Richard picks up the pace a little.  
  
“What do you like about it?” he asks, borne more of curiosity than sexual play.  
  
Gavin licks his now-dry lips. “I told you. I find it centering.”  
  
“ _How_ , though?” Richard asks, and if he weren’t still jerking Gavin off he thinks they’d just be having a fight by now. But Gavin’s pupils are blown and his hips are moving with Richard’s hand, and he doesn’t want to argue, and he senses that Gavin wants something else, so he thinks quickly, tries to fill in the blanks. “You like being…”  
  
“I like feeling as though I serve a purpose,” Gavin says, snapping his hips up in a ragged rhythm. “I like having only one thing to focus upon. I like being forced out of my own comfort zone — I like doing that to you — _shit, Richard_ —” And Richard does nothing, says nothing, just watches as Gavin fucks his grip steadily, working himself up until he shatters with a silent gasp.  
  
Richard wipes his hand off on Gavin’s boxers. Gavin falls backward onto the bed, and he allows himself to be pulled down with him, pulled onto Gavin’s chest with arms draped lazily over his back. Richard closes his eyes, only a little uneasy about what this means. Nothing about this makes sense. He shouldn’t be the one being gathered up and held. Not that he ever _wants_ to be (except that he does, more often than he’d admit), but not after…  
  
It makes no sense. He twists his face around to be closer to Gavin’s ear. “Is that, uh, okay?”  
  
“Mm?” Gavin just squeezes him a little, and Richard shuts his eyes tightly, in embarrassed frustration.  
  
“Are you going to need the thing?”  
  
“What thing?”  
  
“Where you, y’know. Do the thing. After we—” He doesn’t like the terminology Gavin has used, _aftercare_ and _subspace_ , all these clinical terms that make him sound like he’s in need of an actual doctor. He avoids the real words when possible, makes reference with hand gestures and carefully avoidant phrasing.  
  
Gavin seems to get it, in any case. “I doubt it,” he says, “but I thought that you might stay tonight anyway.”  
  
“Oh,” says Richard, and this is the part where he normally thinks of an excuse. They’re all failing him this time, though, and he feels a sudden rush of guilt, like he can’t leave at all. Like he’s done something slightly wrong here, by letting Gavin _do that_ for him. He lets his body go limp, dead weight on top of Gavin’s solid frame, and feels the arms around him loosen just a bit.  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Richard says after a brief pause. “Whatever. I’m fine. Yeah. I’ll stay.”  
  
Gavin turns to the side, depositing Richard on his own left side, and pulls his head back far enough to look him in the eye. “Don’t be uncomfortable,” he says firmly, which is, of course, a tremendously unhelpful thing to say to anyone feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable. Richard shakes his head, and Gavin adds, “I thought I might take a dip in the pool in a bit. It’s not supposed to dip below 85 tonight.”  
  
“Jesus,” Richard murmurs, then shrugs. “I, uh. Okay. Maybe in, like, an hour.”  
  
Gavin’s face softens, and he smiles at Richard, less of a scheming grin and more of a genuine break — cracking open, Richard thinks, and it doesn’t bring him as much comfort as he thinks it should, knowing that he is probably one of the few people who can make Gavin Belson crack like this. It’s a power he still doesn’t trust himself with. But he doesn’t say anything. He lets Gavin push his fingers up through his hair, winding an errant curl around his fingers. “An hour’s fine,” says Gavin, and Richard closes his eyes and wonders, for the upteenth time, how the hell he ended up here.


End file.
